Part-eh?

When you work as a freelancer, an invitation to a client’s Xmas party is more than welcome. A chance to actually meet some of the names you see on emails and the disembodied voices on phones. If it’s in a swanky bar and the drinks are on the house … even better!

For staffers, the stereotype sees colleagues sneaking off to the stationary cupboard together to drunkenly exorcise all the sexual tension that’s been building up in the office. But when you’re struggling to put faces to names, such opportunities are a low priority. You’re more worried about shagging the secret admiree of the person who books you.

Not that that stops you fantasizing. And when your marriage is in dire straights … y’know what … fuck it! Why rule out the possibility. I could go with a flirty conversation leading to a fleetingly gratuitous liaison in the toilet. But does that mean should I carry condoms this evening? Or as a family man, is that too much? Is that indicative of unattractive intent? On the other hand, condoms wouldn’t be needed if just squeezing into a cubicle for a mutual wank or oral.

—

Last year, at the same party, there was flirting.
This year seemed more restrained. More professional.
Maybe it was that the lights in the bar were just a little brighter.

—

Your client is lovely. Genuinely lovely. Universally regarded as the loveliest man in the business. And having known him for 15yrs, it’s easy to regard him as a friend.

His wife has accompanied him to the party. She is equally lovely.

As they start to depart, you grab the chance to finally speak to your clients wife. Apologise for how the intended social invitation to her and family never materialised this year.
She berates you with comic enthusiasm
You innocently comment how she is (genuinely) the most glamorously attired person in the bar – a purple satin party frock with just a hint of 50s Hollywood.
She wraps her arms around you and kisses you on the cheek. You reciprocate, without the kiss.
The bar is loud, so when she releases you, the conventions of personal space are ignored and her arm remains around your shoulders, as does yours around hers.
You chat of this and that.
Her arm relaxes and slips to your waist, which feels simultaneously innocuous and incongruous.
But she is your lovely clients lovely wife and as much as fleeting an invitation as it could take, she’s also the last person here you’d actually fuck in the toilets. Your arm stays modestly around her shoulders.
She observes how much more drink she had last year.
Maybe she’s just relaxed, but her hand seemed to drop further.
Reciprocating is not prudent. Tempting. But definitely not prudent.
Especially when her hand strays below your belt and briefly comes to rest on your arse.
A conversation with another staffer draws attention …
… and thankfully we drift apart.
Thankfully?